


A Cup of Tea, a Cookie, and You

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Eliot gives Quentin a baking lesson.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	A Cup of Tea, a Cookie, and You

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own The Magicians, etc. etc., this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic and, as always, enjoy!

“What the hell is all this?” 

Eliot glanced up from his stack of recipe cards as Quentin spoke from the doorway. Baking supplies and a few ingredients littered the clean kitchen countertop of the Physical Kids cottage. 

“I’m going to bake,” Eliot said, smiling at his partner. 

“You’re wearing an apron!” 

“Gordon Ramsay wears an apron. Emeril Legasse wears an apron!” 

Quentin sat his messenger bag down on the round wooden table in the breakfast nook. 

“Imagine if Gordon Ramsay had TK? People would be ducking flying butcher knives and pasta kettles.” He went to Eliot, who pulled him into a hug. 

“I don’t think Gordon needs TK to throw things at people.” He kissed Quentin’s lips. “Mmmm, cherry!” 

“It’s Chapstick.” Quentin glanced at the ingredients on the counter. “So, what are you making?” 

“White chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies,” Eliot nuzzled Quentin’s neck. “Do you want to help me?” 

“I’m clueless in the kitchen, El.” 

“I could teach you! Learning to bake is simple, really, you just measure and combine ingredients! Come on . . . try it with me!” 

Quentin looked up at him. 

“Do I have to wear an apron?” He asked, and Eliot’s grin became a bit sharklike. 

“Yes!” 

Quentin tried to stare him down, but Eliot only smiled. Quentin sighed. 

“Fine. But if Penny sees me in it, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave Brakebills and live among the Amish.” 

“Where you’ll still learn to bake,” Eliot nodded. “So it’s win-win!” 

“Har fuckin’-har!” Quentin replied, watching Eliot pull a clean black apron from a drawer. “Just be warned, I usually can’t even crack an egg right, I get pieces of the shell everywhere about sixty percent of the time.” 

“I like those odds!” Eliot smiled and slipped the apron’s loops over Quentin’s head and then tapped his hip. “Turn . . .” He said, then secured the strings at the back. “There we are! Now . . . you usually start with setting out your ingredients to make sure you have everything, and in the right amounts. Here--” He handed Quentin the recipe card. “You read the ingredients out, and I’ll check them off.” 

“How do we stand the excitement?” Quentin drawled as he scanned the card. Eliot eyed him. 

“Just read the card, Quentin.” 

“Two and a half cups of flour, one cup of granulated sugar, one cup of packed brown sugar, one egg . . .” Quentin read them off as Eliot touched each one. 

“Good,” Eliot said at last as he set out on a large plastic bowl, a whisk, and several different wooden spoons. “Let’s measure our flour.” Eliot nodded to the bag and Quentin picked it up. “The trick is to pour slowly so it doesn’t get everywhere.” Eliot laid his hands over Quentin’s as he shook flour into the measuring cup. “Just like that . . . excellent!” He added the flour into the large bowl. “Now the sugar,” Eliot instructed as Quentin poured from each bag. Eliot picked up the egg and as Quentin watched, he cracked the shell open with one hand and the yolk and white slithered into the bowl. 

“How did you do that?” 

“Just practice. Here, start stirring that, it’s easier to blend the dough before you add the chocolate chips and the nuts.” He handed Quentin a wooden spoon. “Brace the bowl against yourself if you need to, and make sure it’s all blended well. Don’t forget to scrape the sides of the bowl now and then.” 

Quentin obeyed, mixing the ingredients until they morphed into cookie dough. Eliot glanced over. 

“I think we can add the chips and nuts now.” He raised one hand and flick-turned his wrist, and the dial on the oven turned. “Don’t be afraid to knead it with your hands now, it’s the best way to judge the consistency. Good . . . how does it feel?” 

“Like dough,” Quentin frowned. 

“Well yes Q but how does it _feel?_ ” Eliot put one hand in the bowl and squeezed the dough. “I think we need a touch more flour.” He dusted the dough with flour and kneaded it again. “There! Now feel the difference.” 

Quentin poked at the dough and nodded. Eliot set out two baking pans. 

“Now we can set out the cookie dough out onto the pans, like this--” Eliot dropped a few teaspoon-sized lumps of dough onto the sheet. “Come on, you do a few.” 

Quentin copied his actions and Eliot watched, noticing how the tip of Quentin’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he focused on the task. 

“Like this?” 

“Good! Not too big--” 

“They’re the same size as yours!” 

“No need to have dough envy . . .” 

“ _Dough_ envy?” 

“Trust me, it’s a thing,” Eliot grinned as he continued to drop dough onto the cookie sheets. “I’ve been in many a baking competition, you know.” 

“How many?” Quentin challenged. Eliot poked him in the back. 

“Dozens!” 

“Bakers dozens?” 

“You’re asking for it!” Eliot said as he slid both baking pans into the oven. Quentin popped a few white chocolate chips into his mouth. 

“It’s revenge for making me wear the apron.” 

“Well, you’re going to need it for cleanup time. One of the most important phrases I learned when it comes to cooking and baking--clean as you go.” The kitchen sink taps turned on and Eliot nodded. “Shoot some dish soap into the sink, will you?” 

Quentin squirted a few dollops of dish soap into the water, watching the clouds of suds build. He glanced at Eliot’s back, his shoulders working as he fussed with the measuring spoons. Grinning, Quentin scooped up a handful of soap bubbles. 

“Hey, El?” 

“Hmm?” Eliot turned and Quentin blew the suds into his face. They landed on his nose and in his dark hair, where they popped and dissolved. Eliot blinked and then charged his partner, who yelped laughter and ducked around the kitchen island as Eliot snatched at him. “You are getting _such_ a spanking!” 

Quentin careened around the corner of the island, laughing, and grabbed up the flour bag. Eliot pulled up as Quentin plunged his hand into the bag, which was nearly full. Eliot glanced around and grabbed up the brown sugar. Quentin took a step forward. 

“Come at me!” He laughed. Eliot cleared his throat. 

“Okay! Just . . . let’s both take it easy. Lower the bags on three?” 

“On three,” Quentin agreed. 

“All right. One, two, three!” He lowered the bag of sugar as Quentin lowered the flour. “Okay, now--” 

Flour coated his face and hair before Eliot finished speaking the second word, and Quentin looked down at the flour bag, which he’d squeezed with both hands. Eliot coughed out a small cloud of the stuff, and Quentin bit his lower lip. 

“Ooops,” he said, but there was no missing the gleam in his dark eyes. Eliot glared at him and then Quentin was sliding across the surface of the kitchen island, propelled by Eliot’s magic. “El! Aggghh!” Quentin half-laughed, half-shouted as he slid into his partner’s arms and Eliot took him to the floor, along with the flour, sugar, and half a carton of eggs. They hit the floor with a splat as the two magicians rolled across the floor together. Eliot became vaguely aware that the sink was overflowing. Undaunted, he scrubbed a paste of flour and water, along with a bit of egg whites, into Quentin’s hair. 

“Ooops! Oooops!” He crowed, and Quentin squirmed. 

“Quit it, El! Quit it . . .” Quentin gasped, laughing and trying to escape at the same time. He got one hand around a broken egg and spattered it against Eliot’s temple. Yolk dripped down the side of his face and off his chin and Eliotr shook his head briskly, so some of it splashed onto Quentin’s face. His partner was flushed, giggling, and covered with goo, so Eliot lowered his head to kiss Quentin’s flour-covered lips. 

“Say Uncle!” 

“Never!” Quentin grinned, and Eliot swirled his tongue into the younger man’s left ear. Quentin gave a shudder of pleasure. “Oh . . . you’re not . . . playing fair!” His hips rolled and Eliot answered the press with one of his own, creating an unbearable friction. 

“Say Uncle . . .” He bit Quentin’s earlobe and blew into his ear. 

“El--Uncle, Uncle!” He moaned, and Eliot grinned, triumphant, before claiming Quentin’s mouth in a deep kiss. 

“Oh Jesus fuck, will you look at this mess!” 

Eliot looked up to see Margo standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. 

“Hi, Margo!” 

“Hi? I think you must be!” She marched over to the sink and turned off the taps, watching sudsy water drool over the edge of the overflowing sink. “We fucking eat in here!” 

“Technically, we eat in the dining room.” Eliot got to his feet and helped Quentin up. 

“Quentin’s rubbing off on you,” Margo said, then rolled her eyes as Eliot grinned. “I meant you’re getting as pedantic as he is! What happened, anyway?” 

“I was teaching Q how to bake,” Eliot said, and the oven timer gave a merry ding, punctuating his words. “Oh! Cookies are done!” 

Quentin shook flour and brown sugar from his hair. Margo narrowed her eyes at him as he offered her a sheepish smile. 

“We, uh, spilled some stuff.” 

“Right,” Margo sighed as she looked down at the flood seeping across the kitchen floor. “I hope you can get this cleaned up before dinner or you’re both springing for takeout!” 

“Don’t mind Bambi,” Eliot said as he watched her leave with a flare of her stylish skirt. “She’s just mad she missed the main event. Open . . .” he had Quentin take a bite of cookie, still warm and unbelievably soft. 

“Mmmmh. El, that’s amazing!” 

Eliot took a bite and then kissed Quentin’s lips. 

“So. What did you take away from your first baking lesson, Q?” 

Quentin glanced around at the sudsy water, the spilled flour, and the broken eggs, and then reached up to unbutton Eliot’s filthy, smeared shirt. Eliot cocked a curious brow, and Quentin ran his hands over Eliot’s chest before pushing the shirt off his shoulders. 

“Clean as you go.” 

THE END 

  
  



End file.
